


Promises.

by allium_writes



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Voldemort Wins, Angst, Angst and Tragedy, Blood and Gore, Eventual Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy, F/M, Harry Potter Dies, Inspired by Hadestown, Post-Apocalypse, Post-War, Revolution, Slow Burn, Slow Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-12
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-18 09:39:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29366403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allium_writes/pseuds/allium_writes
Summary: Hermione Granger was not selfish—she lost everything to Voldemort. She couldn't be selfless under his rule. Draco Malfoy was not hubristic—he had lost his humanity to Voldemort. How could you be the same person after war?In a post-apocalyptic world, anything is possible.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy, Lucius Malfoy/Narcissa Black Malfoy
Comments: 3
Kudos: 13





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by Hadestown: the musical; will not include any music from Hadestown. 
> 
> Crossposted on ffn (alliumwrites).
> 
> Beta work by 1awkwardgoat
> 
> All characters belong to JK Rowling unless they are original characters. I do not support JK Rowling.

Sometimes she could see and hear Ron and Harry before she went to sleep. Hermione missed Ron and Harry with all of her heart. She had no idea what happened to Ron—all she remembered was watching Harry die before someone had apparated her away.

* * *

Hermione always knew she was a Gryffindor. It wasn't like she hadn't heard the other students talking behind her back, saying that the sorting hat had made a mistake all those years ago, that she wasn't brave enough to be a Gryffindor and should have been a Ravenclaw instead, but before, it had never bothered her. Before the Battle of Hogwarts. She thought of her life like that now, Before and After. Before when she was happy and had friends. After, when she was alone and afraid, she didn't feel like a Gryffindor anymore—she felt like a coward. The war had stripped Hermione of any hope and traits she used to hold on to. 

After the Battle of Hogwarts ended five years ago, everything she had previously known had torn apart; from the Order of the Phoenix to the seasons to time. Voldemort's reign on the Wizarding World expanded to the muggle world. Cities had dulled—any signs of colours and culture were removed. 

Some days Hermione wondered how her parents were doing in Australia, hopefully, they were doing better than she was. She wanted to go find her parents and make them remember her, but that would be selfish of her to force her miserable life onto theirs. 

Hermione hated how selfish she had become. 

Food and water were scarce, and people barely made enough money to buy necessities—stealing was rampant in every city she had visited. Only the most loyal Death Eaters lived in lavish lifestyles where they could watch the poor struggle beneath them. 

The smoke and gasoline filled the air surrounding the cities almost unbearable so, but Hermione had gotten used to the thick air.

With little to no job openings, Hermione had lived off of scraps. All of the food charms or doubling charms she used quickly tarnished the food, making it inedible. Money couldn't be duplicated—Voldemort had charmed every form of money from being able to duplicate itself. He made sure that the townsfolk continued to be poor. Vultures lived in every town waiting for people to fall at their own feet. 

Hermione could feel herself wasting away. Her ribs and backbone protruded from her skin. Her hair was limp and thin, falling just above her shoulders. Her skin yellowed due to lack of proper food and she thought the bags under her eyes would never go away. When she looked up, she almost always saw a vulture circling above her. It was as if they knew how close she was to starvation. Anyone who once knew her wouldn't be able to distinguish her from the crowd—she looked nothing like the girl she used to be.

The vultures were particularly keen on Hermione; they waited for her to die of starvation. 

Newspapers and law books were plastered onto each wall of every building. If anyone looked far enough, they could find Hermione's pictures. No one seemed to care about the photos anymore after the wall started to update every day with more rules and photos. Only the Desperates kept a close eye on the wanted posters. 

Hermione was cautious about the group of Desperates—she made sure she didn't stay in one town for long. Her home was the road she walked every day. 

When she was little, all she wanted to do was travel, but now she loathed it. Hermione couldn't even remember how many towns and cities she had visited—they were all the same. Every city she visited embraced the uniform colour of grey. 

She walked around the road of each town she visited. Sometimes she would find people being attacked on the streets by the Death Eaters. As much as she wanted to fight the Death Eaters off, it would amount to nothing but the death of her and the person she was trying to save. Hermione learned to put her life before others—but she felt like a coward in doing so. 

Every city had at least one pub. No matter how poor the city was and no matter how hungry the people were, patrons of the pubs would always be there to drink their sorrows away. Inside the pub, people could forget about their realities. It seemed like the pub was the only lively part of each city. Music, dancing, and waves of laughter filled the pub when Hermione walked in. 

The pub had ripped posters and broken glass around the tables. The tables themselves were damaged from the drunk bodies falling onto the table and chairs. The stench of old alcohol filled the air. In another time, Hermione would hate the smell of cheap old alcohol, but it was a good change to the gasoline she had to breathe in every day. 

Hermione stood in the corner and watched as people drunkenly laughed and danced—pretending that they didn't live in a hellhole. People stuck in their work clothes dancing their life away. 

The pub always brought a sense of hope that one day they would be happy, yet it was a façade. Hermione knew that her reality wouldn't ever be as lively as the pub was. Her life was a pattern that she had fallen into: looking for food, searching for a job, and then leaving for the next city. 

If she wanted to live a happy life, she would embrace death. Yet, something held her back from walking into the hands of death—maybe she still had hope in her heart or fear that she would have to be reborn into the life she currently had. 

When the pub became too crowded for Hermione to breathe in, Hermione walked out and into the forest. 

She took a small tent out from her pocket and placed it on the ground. Her pocket, riddled with the Undetectable Extension Charm, only held the essentials: her tent, wand, a change of clothes, and a candle. If she carried too much, the Desperates would find out and try to steal everything they could from her. 

" _Protego Totalum. Salvio Hexia. Muffilato. Cave Inmicum,"_ Hermione said around her tent. 

The small walls of protection around her tent allowed her to observe the world and not be in it. From her tent, she could see the townspeople protecting their houses from the Desperates. 

She could hear her stomach grumble, but she ignored her stomach. She could barely manage to get one meal a day—two if she was lucky. 

The wind rustled outside the tent; the cold seeped through the thin layer of her tent. Hermione could only wish to have a blanket. Her coat barely managed to keep her warm enough from the wind. 

It never crossed her mind to use her candle. She only used her candle for emergencies, a doubling charm would most likely ruin her candle, and she couldn't risk it. 

Sleeping in her tent reminded her of the Horcrux hunt she went on. The ache in her limbs from all of the walking. The empty feeling in her stomach as she scavenged for food. The dirt that covered her body from sleeping on the floor. It was all too familiar. 

But this time she was alone. 

By the time Hermione woke up and finished packing, the sun had risen, and the wind had calmed down. She began walking through the small city to look for food—maybe if she was lucky, she could find a job. 

Hermione walked towards the small bakery at the corner of the town. Loaves of bread filled the store. Her stomach grumbled as she looked through the shelves. 

Hermione took the smallest loaf of bread off of the shelf and approached one of the workers. "How much for this loaf of bread?" 

"A galleon," the worker said. 

Hermione narrowed her eyes—a galleon was hard to come around. "A galleon?"

The worker nodded sadly. "We have to raise the prices. We can't afford anything anymore. It's the same for all of the other stores—it's just how it goes these days." 

Hermione glanced at the shelves. If a small loaf of bread already cost a galleon, she knew that the bigger loaves of bread would be an absurd amount. 

"Are you hiring?" Hermione asked.

"No. I think some stores had a few job openings a while back, but they're all gone now. You might have to look into the pub, abysmal pay though—wouldn't let you make a living nowadays." 

Abysmal pay was not the worst thing in Hermione's mind. She didn't care about how much she would get paid—she just needed some form of money. 

She could feel the vultures staring at her body; they eagerly waited for her to die. 

"Thank you," Hermione said before she left the bakery. 

Hermione passed the other stores on her way to the pub. Only the essential stores were open, but even then there were barely anyone in them. The further she walked around town, she could see the abandoned Quidditch stores and jewellery stores. 

Hermione shivered as she walked into the pub. It had felt depressing without the drunk people around her. There was only one other person in the pub, a worker she presumed. 

"Excuse me?" 

The woman groaned when she saw Hermione before she went back to working behind the bar. "We're out of alcohol, you're going to have to wait until we have another supply." 

Hermione shook her head. "I'm not looking for alcohol—" 

Hermione could faintly hear the woman laugh. "You're the first. Why are you here then?" 

"I'm looking for a job," Hermione said confidently. 

The woman stopped making her drink and placed her wand on the counter. "Why would you want to work here? I barely get paid a knut an hour." 

"Better than nothing," Hermione said curtly. 

The woman laughed again. "You must be desperate for a job then." 

Hermione narrowed her eyes at the woman, tired of hearing the woman mock her for trying to get a job. "I am. How do I get a job here?" 

She watched as the woman began walking from behind the bar and stood next to her. 

The woman pointed towards the main floor of the pub. "Clean up the place." 

Hermione took out her wand before cleaning the place. For extra measures, she began fixing the tables and chairs. 

"Good. You aren't incapable of magic." 

Hermione wanted to glare at the woman and tell her that she was the smartest witch of her time, but she knew she couldn't expose her identity. Hermione tightened her lips into a thin line. If Harry had won, she would've been getting job offers left and right, but now she could barely find a job that would buy her a loaf of bread. 

Hermione wanted to yell at herself from dwelling on the past—she wouldn't ever have the chance to go back. 

She wanted to yell at her younger self for spending all of her time in the library studying for tests she didn't care about anymore. She wished that she spent more time experiencing the joys of Hogwarts instead of consuming herself in words. She would give up everything now to go back to her years at Hogwarts. 

"I would hope so," Hermione muttered. 

The woman laughed again before patting Hermione on the back. "I like you, you're hired." 

"When do I start?" 

The woman took out a pin and a marker from her pocket. "You can start right now. I need someone to keep me sane before groups of drunk people flood the gates. Let's make you a name tag, what's your name?" 

"Jean Dursley." 

If things went well, Hermione could save some money before anyone could tell the Desperates. 

The woman scribbled Jean Dursley onto the pin before pinning it to Hermione's coat. "Funny name. Everyone here calls me Cleo. Come on, you're going to help me now." 

Hermione followed Cleo to the bar. Boxes upon boxes filled the bottom shelves of the bar. They both began unboxing the different types of whiskey.

"They act like people here can afford this shit—actually I'm glad they don't. More whiskey to myself. You drink?" 

Hermione grimaced at the thought of whiskey. "No." 

Cleo shrugged her shoulders before placing the whiskey on the shelves. "Your loss, more whiskey for me." 

Hermione didn't know how she felt about Cleo—who was more or less someone who was drunk off of her own humour. Hermione appreciated how Cleo pretended everything was either funny or okay (or that's how Hermione thought Cleo saw the world). 

* * *

On the other side of the road was Draco Malfoy. 

After the Malfoy name had been tarnished, Draco had lost all sense of himself. He was ashamed of the Malfoy name after Voldemort's public mocking. His parents had tried to regain Voldemort's favour by giving up a large portion of the Malfoy-Black wealth and full ownership to Malfoy Manor. Yet, no Death Eaters treated the family with respect. 

Respect was something Draco didn't understand anymore. All he had was the mark on his arm and himself, lost in his world of confusion. 

Draco had lost everything that once mattered to him. From the money to his own sanity. Had he been living his life on an unstable pedestal? 

He would try his best to ignore his reality. He only ever stayed in his hotel room or the pub. He hadn't seen most of his friends from school ever since the war—was it the isolation he put himself in or how he wasn't deemed a true Death Eater anymore? 

To pass the long hours of the day, he would drown himself out with music. He had learned how to play the piano when he was younger, but he was in need of something new—something that he hadn't been learning since childhood. 

Draco found an old guitar in one of the stores he had visited. With the help of the mark on his arm, he had gotten the guitar for free. 

Draco spent most of his time learning the guitar—he held onto his guitar like his lifeline. As much as he didn't want to admit it, Draco had a natural talent for music. He would watch as the colours reappeared when he played the guitar. Maybe one day, the song he was working on would bring colour back to his world. 

Draco Malfoy was a selfish person. 

He didn't care if the world was dull for others. He just wanted life to be worthwhile for the time he had to spend in the dark world. The world that he used to want—the world he had worked for. 

From his hotel room, he could see the view of the road that entered the town. Sometimes he would watch as people came and went with the same look of fatigue around their bodies. 

On the town's road, plenty of workers and Desperates walked on both sides. The stench of despair mixed with gasoline warped the world. 

All forms of hope were demolished under Voldemort's rule. The only sort of happiness anyone had felt was in their drunken state when they could believe their dreams could come true. 


	2. Chapter 2

On some occasions, Death Eaters would roam the roads just to watch the townspeople suffer. They would laugh and watch the movie unfold in front of them—they never got tired of watching the same film. 

Draco hated walking down the road. He could feel the terrified stares of the passers-by. All they saw was the mark on his arm. Every one of them was terrified of what he could do to them. They were deathly afraid of being jailed to await their eventual deaths in an even more bleak world than the one they were living in.

The only thing Draco liked about the mark was that no one got in his way. Everywhere he went, people scattered away from him like rats. But he kept his eyes forward, ignoring the world around him. 

Fridays were execution days. The prisoners were forced into the capital—where they went to get publicly tortured then executed. Kids and families had to watch in person or on the big screens as the people they knew died. 

Most Death Eaters walked in a small group, but Draco walked alone. Even if he didn't have friends around him, he was proud that people still feared him—it was a sign of respect. 

He preferred walking at night when children and parents stayed at home. Adults went to the pub and scraped some of their money to drink. 

Draco could see the colourful lights coming from the pub. Even from a mile away, Draco could hear the loud laughter and music. It was almost nauseating how bright and colourful the pub was in comparison to the rest of the town. 

He walked into the bar and watched as most people ignored or glared at him. With a chilling stare, they begrudgingly moved out of his way. Draco walked towards the bar and waited for one of the workers to come to him. 

The moment Hermione saw Draco come in, she tried to keep her profile low—the last thing she needed was for him to recognize her. She watched as he began fiddling with his wand as he watched the band play their music. He turned his head in her direction, but Hermione quickly turned her head. 

She had to keep her head low. 

Hermione glanced at Cleo, who was busy yelling at a customer for trying to steal more alcohol. Quickly moving her hair to cover parts of her face, she walked towards him. 

"What would you like to drink, sir?" Hermione asked, trying to cover her voice. 

Draco narrowed his eyes at Hermione. "Your best whiskey." 

Hermione turned her back to Draco and pointed her wand to the highest shelf. She unlocked the box and levitated it towards him before grabbing a glass. 

"No, I'll have the whole thing."

Hermione kept her eyes down and nodded her head before putting the glass back. "Is that all?" 

Draco peered at her name tag. "Well. Jean Dursley, I am in need of company. Would you like to chat?" 

Hermione began walking away from him. "No, I'm quite busy." 

Draco laughed. "Busy with no one to serve? Granger, is that how you talk to old friends?" 

Hermione abruptly stopped her movements and turned back to Draco. He proudly smiled as if he had just solved a riddle he had been pondering over. She silently took her wand and cast a _Muffilato_ over them. 

"I don't know what you're talking about, sir." 

Hermione brought up the courage to look into his eyes. His grey eyes glinted with amusement. 

She quickly tore her eyes away from his. His eyes were the same grey she had to face every day when she walked out. 

"Is that so? I quite like it when you call me sir, Granger." 

Hermione gripped her wand tighter. She kept reminding herself that she couldn't fight Draco in the pub if she wanted to. She could tell that Draco knew that she was fighting herself—he clearly enjoyed watching her fight her urge to argue back. 

"I have to get back to work. I do not know who you're talking about—my name is Jean Dursley," Hermione said through gritted teeth. 

Draco lazily sipped his whiskey. "Sounds a bit rehearsed, don't you think?" 

Hermione looked around at the people near them. She could quickly _Obliviate_ him and move to the next town. She had a good run in this town—she made a bit of money that could possibly get her some food. It was only a matter of time before she had to go to the next town. 

"Not really," Hermione said. 

Draco surveyed Hermione's changed appearance. Her bones were popping out in weird angles, she had choppily cut hair, her clothes were a bit too big on her, and a deep shade of purple surrounded her eyes. Under closer inspection, she still looked like her younger self. 

"Well, Granger, you should find a better name and costume. You should probably eat a bit too, seems like you need it," he sneered, "Jean Dursley? Pathetic name, isn't it? But what else would I expect from you?" 

He watched as Hermione pursed her lips, trying to contain her anger. He hadn't felt this much amusement from someone in a very long time; he enjoyed it much more than he wanted to admit. Hermione gave up trying to hide her identity from him—he was too stubborn for her liking. She was thankful for the _Muffilato_ she cast over them. With a sigh, she took the closest chair and sat on it. 

Draco set down the whiskey bottle. "Wouldn't it be funny if I turned you in? I can already imagine the headlines: Malfoy catches Hermione Granger—the last of the Order of the Phoenix." 

Anger consumed Hermione as her knuckles turned white. "Listen here, Malfoy, I saved your ass from being killed—care to return the favour?" 

He nonchalantly smirked before taking another sip of his whiskey. "I never asked to be saved, did I? Just your heroics kicking in." 

Hermione regretted letting Ron and Harry save Draco. Even after the war, Draco was still the same exact bully he was back in Hogwarts. She could not see any signs of growth. 

"I swear to god, I will _Obliviate_ you," Hermione angrily said, but he didn't look fazed. Draco winked at her before taking another sip. 

The red lights from the pub illuminated his body. Hermione wanted to laugh at Draco in the colour red. He had always been in green and despised the colour red, and to see him in the colour he hated most was comical to her. 

Draco was too much of a coward to be in Gryffindor. 

"You make me laugh. Don't you know that the Dark Lord has all of the spells tracked? It wouldn't do you too well to harm me." 

"Of course," she curtly said. 

His eyes narrowed at her again. "So you know you can't _Obliviate_ me, right?"

Hermione laughed at him before she leaned forwards. She could smell the expensive whiskey coming from his bottle mixing into the scent of cheap alcohol. "Don't you know that I can just use anyone else's wand and _Obliviate_ you? It isn't quite like the trace, is it?" 

He only smiled. If anyone were to figure out how to deceive laws, it would be Hermione. He didn't care for her threats—her morals were too strong for her to cross. 

"Do I have to remind you I'm trained to duel? I could shout your true identity and the Desperates will come right on over—good luck trying to take all of their memories before getting caught. I'd reckon they'll turn you in and you'll say goodbye on Friday—you'd give them good money. So tell me, would you like to visit your dear old friends? Wouldn't you like to see my dear old cousin, our professor, and Potter again?" 

He could see the colour red appear on her face. 

"You're fucked, Malfoy." 

Draco glanced at the bodies on the main floor of the pub before returning his gaze to Hermione. "Feisty aren't you, Granger?" 

She rolled her eyes at him. "Asshole aren't you, Malfoy?" 

His empty laugh filled her ears. "I can still see that you're the same. Have you tried to save someone yet?"

Hermione gritted her teeth. Malfoy had figured out what kept her up at night in less than an hour. 

"No," she blankly said. 

"Finally stepped off of your high horse?" 

Hermione scoffed. "A war happened. I can't save anyone if I can't save myself," she bitterly said. 

Draco flashed her a charismatic smile. "Good to see it broke down your Gryffindor spirit. I wonder what else broke from the war." 

"I am not afraid to punch you," she spat. "If memory serves, punching you in the mouth shut you up pretty quickly last time." 

Draco took a few galleons out of his pockets before placing them on the table. "It's fun watching you get riled up. Feels like the good old days, doesn't it? You miss it, don't you? Being little miss perfect, every professors' favourite. Too bad none of that will help you now. Looks like none of those high marks ended up doing you any good, working here in a pub, serving me on command."

Hermione fought to keep her temper in check as Malfoy continued, "Granger, I quite enjoy watching you try and control yourself, almost as much as I enjoy watching your suffering play out in front of my eyes." 

"And what do you know about suffering? Death Eaters, like you are having the time of their lives watching us struggle to live." She snarled. 

It was his turn to grit his teeth before he smirked. "You're right, Granger. I quite enjoy watching you suffer—much better than my second-year wishes." 

"Fuck off, Malfoy." 

He went back to drinking his whiskey. "Not so nice, Granger." 

"And when have I been nice to a git like you?" 

Draco feigned sadness. "How harsh of you." 

"Says the Death Eater." 

His aristocratic features turned sour at her words. He didn't have to prove himself to her—he already knew that he was irredeemable, but he didn't need to be redeemed. He was content with the life he was living. 

For a second, Hermione regretted her words. She thought she caught a glint of something reminiscent of hurt in his eyes. Pity tried to push its way in, remembering that he too had to fight the same war as her. They were barely adults, and yet, they were fighting for survival all the same. But she pushed those feelings aside.

He didn't deserve her pity. 

"You may have been the top of our year, but it doesn't mean you know everything, Granger." 

"I know that you don't care about the people around you. I know that you could care less when people get tortured. I know you enjoy watching people get killed," she replied. 

Draco stood up from his seat. "As I said before—you don't know everything," he began walking towards the door but turned around, "lovely chat we had. Good to see someone from Hogwarts again, isn't it?" 

Before she could respond, he left. His half-empty bottle of whiskey laid on the table next to the galleons. 

Cleo quickly took the whiskey bottle and hid it from view. "Don't just stare at the money, Jean. Put it in the cash register," Cleo snapped. Hermione snapped back to the present as Cleo walked away, mumbling something about the stupid barkeep she had hired. Hermione felt the hairs stand up on the back of her neck, the familiar urge to scream and shout that she was the smartest witch in the pub, probably in the whole stupid town, tried to fight its way out of her mouth. But she looked at the pile of galleons in front of her and swallowed it back down, it was more than she could have hope to make in a six-month, even years given the current state of the world. For a fleeting moment, she thought about what her life would have been if they had won the Battle of Hogwarts. If she had one day became the Minister of Magic or Headmistress of Hogwarts, but those were nothing more than fantasy now. Just the same as the stories that muggles told their children about the tooth fairy or Santa Claus. She shook her head to clear the thoughts that invaded as she pocketed the money.

She was disgusted that Malfoy was the first classmate that she had seen since the Battle. To her knowledge, most of her friends were dead or missing—the rest of her classmates weren't the fondest of her. 

Looking at Malfoy was the same as looking at her past and present at the same time. His attitude and face were the same from the past. His grey eyes were the future she lived in—one of an endless cycle that she could never get out of. 

Hermione hated the colour grey. 

Working in the pub desensitized her to the world that she was living in. The smell of alcohol lingered on Hermione's clothes. The bright lights made it hard for her to return to the monochromatic world. The constant yelling and dancing made it hard to walk down the quiet road. 

A few galleons. 

That's all she needed to make before she could go back on the road. She would be able to forget about her conversation with Draco and move on with her life. Somewhere far away—somewhere he couldn't find her. 

Hermione laughed at herself for thinking the war would change everyone. Draco had not changed after the war—too much of a coward to directly cause someone harm, but not enough humility to not make jokes about her trauma.

* * *

It couldn't have been more than a week since she first started working—she couldn't place what days were which. 

A group of people walked into the pub, and Hermione snapped back to the present. She picked up the cheap, old alcohol that customers could afford and began filling glasses. As she did, she glimpsed at their apparel. Half of the group wore much nicer clothes than anyone else in the pub, but the rest looked just like Hermione—bones sticking out of their skin, clothing falling off their frame, that tired and defeated look on their faces. 

They were Desperates. 

Hermione became good at figuring out who the Desperates were in every city. She used to think that the Desperates were the people who looked just like her, but she quickly learned that it was typically the people who had nicer things than her. They were the most hungry for any form of power, not strong enough to become a Death Eater, but not weak enough to be scrounging for scraps of food like dogs.

Most people knew about the Desperates, but Hermione coined the term Despondents—the people below the Desperates. They were just as impoverished as Hermione, but they tried to fit in with the Desperates. Even then, the Desperates were much more dangerous than the Despondents could ever be. 

Hermione needed to change her appearance again. If Draco had figured out who she was and told someone—she could be in trouble. 

"Cleo! I'm going to the bathroom!" Hermione said before running to the side of the pub and slipping through the door. 

Broken shards of the mirror filled the bathroom. Hermione cautiously took a large piece of the mirror in her hand before fixing the rest of the mirror. With the mirror mostly fixed, she took the shard of the mirror and cut rough bangs. 

" _Reparo,_ " Hermione said. The piece once in her hand flew into the mirror—piecing itself back together. 

Even Hermione couldn't recognize the girl in the mirror. The mirror must've cut her hand when it flew out because when she lifted her hands from the sink a large gash covered her palms. Her dark red blood stained the white sink. She almost wanted to laugh at how much she began bleeding. 

"A little pain never hurt me. _Episkey!_ " 

Hermione cleaned the bathroom before she checked herself in the mirror. After she took a deep breath, she walked back to the bar. 

"You just cut bangs, Jean? Looks nice," Cleo said. 

"Thanks." 

From what she could see, the Desperates and Despondents were sitting at the corner of the table and chatting. They kept a close eye on the faces around them. 

Hermione nudged Cleo to look at the Desperates. "Are we going to do anything about them?" 

"The Desperates?" 

Hermione nodded. "They could hurt people here. It already looks like they want to turn the woman over there in." 

Cleo shook her head. Her dark brown eyes hardened at the sight of the Desperates. "I can't do anything about it. It's what they usually do—steal and look for people to turn in. They do buy good alcohol. They're just a bit more mad than they usually are." 

"More mad than usual? Is that even possible?" 

Cleo laughed before taking a sip of the whiskey Draco had left. "They're just mad about the Malfoys holding more power than them even if they're failures. It's bad enough that they go to the same pub as one of them, and I'm sure they're pissed that he's taking the good whiskey." 

Hermione opened her mouth to respond to Cleo, but a Desperate walked up to the both of them. 

"A bottle of whiskey? I don't have all day," he spat. 

Cleo rummaged the cabinet to get the second-best whiskey for the Desperate. Hermione glared at him before returning to another customer. 

"Here's your whiskey, sir," Cleo said. 

"You can call me Dan," he replied before winking at Cleo. 

Cleo's face contorted in disgust. "That'll be four galleons." 

Dan took out the four galleons from his pockets before handing them to Cleo. He lit his cigarette before placing it in his mouth. When Cleo left, he grabbed Hermione's arm. 

Hermione immediately took his hand off of her arm and twisted it. Dan's cigarette fell onto the floor as he began whimpering in pain. 

"Don't touch me, and don't even think about talking to Cleo like that," Hermione said before letting go of his arm. 

Dan nodded his head and took his whiskey before returning to his arm. 

"You know you don't need to do that. I can lose a customer," Cleo said from behind Hermione.

Hermione shook her head. "We don't deserve to be treated like that." 

"Jean, you can't go picking up fights wherever you go because it's not fair—you'd be fighting all of your life. I am perfectly capable of protecting myself, and you are too." 

Hermione knew better than to argue with Cleo; she had spoken the truth, but Hermione still had the fighting spirit inside of her. Hermione's own spirit fought even when it tried to give up. 

* * *

By 5 am, Cleo managed to yell at everyone to leave the pub. 

Hermione began cleaning up the spaces with broken glasses and tables. Cleo took the bottle of whiskey Draco had bought—now finished—and placed it in the lower cabinets. 

Hermione hoped that she wouldn't have to see Draco anymore, but she knew that she would be seeing him a lot more now that he knew she worked at the pub. 

After she finished cleaning, it dawned on her how tired she felt. Her body ached for some sort of break, but Hermione pushed on. But she couldn't stop if it meant that she would be able to make more money. 

She broke one cycle to reach into another painful cycle. It was all a game that she could never move forward in. 

"I'll see you later, Cleo!" 

"See you later. Don't be late!" Cleo shouted. 

Her eyes adjusted to the outside world. Children walked around the road finding enjoyment in the little things: from kicking rocks to making their own little stories. 

Hermione's heart ached for the children who had to grow up in a tasteless life. They could not experience the true wonders of life as she had. Many of the kids she had met couldn't even experience magic—families too poor to afford wands. 

She forced her body to continue walking down the road. Distracted by her own thoughts, a small body ran and crashed into Hermione. 

Hermione helped the small child up. "Are you okay?" 

"Yes," the child meekly said. 

The child quickly hid behind Hermione's legs when a group of kids walked towards them. Hermione could hear them laughing as they pointed to their left arm. 

"Come on, Isla! You can be a Death Eater with us!" 

Isla shook her head violently. "I don't want to be a Death Eater. You can be the Death Eater, Saoirse."

It was all too familiar to Hermione—children wanting to become Death Eaters. It always took Hermione by surprise that the children would grow up wanting to become Death Eaters. Yet, she knew it shouldn't be too shocking that they would want to be Death Eaters. It was indoctrinated into their minds that becoming a Death Eater would give them a better chance at life. Hermione knew that they wouldn't become Death Eaters as much as they wanted to; their chances were slim—the best they could ever be were Desperates. 

"It's not cool to hide behind a stranger—she could be a _mudblood,_ " a child in the group said. 

Isla shot Hermione an apologetic look before walking back to her group. The group of kids quickly walked back to one of their houses. 

Hermione walked back into the forest and began setting up her tent. The birds flew away from her as she put up the spells around her campsite. She barely got a few hours of sleep after she began working at the pub—the afternoons were just as dangerous as the nights were. 

She slept with her wand in hand and woke to every single noise. She would periodically cast stronger charms to keep her protected. Yet, nothing was able to calm her nerves. 

Sleep should have been able to help her body rest, but it made Hermione much more restless. Instead, she played around with magic. 

" _Expecto Patronum."_

The otter came flying out of her wand and flew close to Hermione's head. 

It was an obsession for her to create her patronus—it proved at one point in her life she was truly happy. With her otter flying around, she felt safe. She foolishly held onto the hope that maybe one day she would feel a glimpse of that happiness again. 

She could remember her fifth year clearly. She rubbed her left hand; she could remember the blood quill cutting her skin. It made her proud that her charms to write _SNEAK_ over Marietta's face worked. 

It almost felt like a lifetime ago when she was in Hogwarts. She could only process her life in three categories: before she went to Hogwarts, her time in Hogwarts, and life after the war. 

Everything was bleak after the war ended. Her biggest fears used to be failing the people around her, but now she feared for the next generation's life. 

Her heart was a muscle too scarred to continue feeling. 

She knew that her strongest suit was always her brain. On the other hand, her heart was her Achilles' heel; every time she became invested in a cause, she was only disappointed. She had gotten nowhere with S.P.E.W. or with the Order of the Phoenix. 

The distant yelling grounded her back to reality. She could see some people walking near the forest. With a flick of her wand, her otter disappeared. 

Hermione counted the knuts in her pockets. 

45 knuts. 

That was enough money for her to buy ingredients for an Invigoration Draught. She was lucky that Cleo gave her scraps of the food they sold; she would finally be able to buy something for herself. 

Hermione packed her tent before she left—never staying in the same spot for long. She made her way to the herb store in the small corner of the town. 

The street reminded her of Knockturn Alley, too dark for her liking with Despondents all around the road. Keeping her wand clutched in her hand, she looked for the small store. 

After looking at all of the stores, she found _Herbs for Potions_ and walked in.

Hermione coughed as she walked around the store. Dust piled the jars around her, and the air was stale. 

"What do you need?" The storekeeper asked. 

Hermione turned to face the storekeeper. "I need ingredients for an Invigoration Draught." 

"And you have enough for that?" 

Hermione took the knuts out of her pockets and placed them into the storekeeper's hand. The storekeeper counted all of her knuts before heading to the back of the store. 

"Your ingredients," the storekeeper said before placing the bag in her hands. 

Hermione opened the bag. 

_Alihotsy leaves. Dried Billywig Stings. Peppermint. Honey Water. Scruvy Grass. Lovage. Wormwood. Vervain._

"I'm missing the Stewed Mandrake."

The storekeeper snarled, "Smart girl," before putting the Stewed Mandrake in Hermione's bag. She barely had enough to make one cauldron full of the draught. 

Hermione quickly took the bag and walked out of the store. She hid the bag in her coat before making her way to the pub. 

Cleo smiled when she saw Hermione walk in. 

"Cleo, do you have any cauldrons?" 

Cleo shook her head and laughed. "Do you think we have the money for that?" 

Hermione placed the bag on the table. "Well, is there anything I can make a potion in?" 

Cleo paused before getting Draco's whiskey bottle from the cabinet. "Immaculate—that's what it should be called." 

Hermione took the bottle from Cleo's hands and washed it thoroughly with water. She had never made a potion in a whiskey bottle, but it was a first for everything. 

She slowly began mixing and cutting the ingredients. Hermione couldn't remember when the last time she was able to make a full draught. She still could see the lines of directions clearly in her head. 

"Did you spend all of your money on that?" 

Hermione merely nodded before closing the whiskey bottle and placing it on a shelf that allowed her to lock the bottle in place. 

"Hey Cleo, would I get paid if I started working now?" 

"You wish. I might be able to scrape something up for you, but it's not guaranteed." 

"Better than nothing." 

"You never fail to make me laugh, Jean." 

Hermione cracked a small smile as she began cleaning the glasses and tables. Jean started to redecorate the pub. Posters changed, and the lights around the pub fixed themselves.

Hermione looked at the pub's new name. " _Hole in the Wall_ is a bad pub name, don't you think?" 

"No, I think it's perfect. Come on, you gotta clean the bathroom again—I heard someone vomited in there last night." 

Hermione groaned before walking into the bathroom. 

Life was long, and Hermione couldn't sit around penniless. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you're curious why he's referred to Draco in this chapter it's because the story is told in third person omniscient rather than third person limited (the narrator is a character within themselves)!


	3. Chapter 3

It couldn't have been more than a month since she first started working at the pub. It couldn't have been more than a few weeks since she first saw _him_ again. But this world had a way of making time stand still and speed up all at the same time.

The second time he saw her, he laughed at her haircut. 

"And what type of hair cut is that?" Draco reached out to her bangs before flicking her head. Hermione quickly smacked his hand away before flipping him off. Draco laughed. 

"It's a haircut. Not all of us care for the way we look anymore." 

Draco leaned against his chair. "No need to tell me—I can tell just by looking at you." 

"Can you let me get back to work?" 

"And where's the fun in that, Gr—" 

Hermione took his bottle of whiskey away from him. He groaned in annoyance before reaching towards the bottle. She took the bottle and placed it behind her. 

"—Dursley. Now can I get my whiskey back?" 

From then on, Draco went to the bar every day and sat at the bar, right next to Hermione. Yet, he rarely talked to her. He preferred the silence as he drank his whiskey or wine. On some occasions, he would make a snarky remark towards Hermione, but other than that, he was silent. 

Hermione never associated him with silence—maybe the boisterous boy she had once known did change from the war. He was more analytical than she remembered, or was it that she was just starting to pay more attention to him? 

He spent his time analysing the room and listening to the band play; it seemed like he tried to calculate what it was like to enjoy life, or was it her wishful thinking that he too was affected by the war? 

The more he came around, the longer Hermione would observe him. No other Death Eater went to the pub as often as Draco did—Hermione was grateful she hadn't seen any Death Eaters go to the pub in the month she worked there. 

She learned that he maintained direct eye contact with the person he talked to. She could tell that he would decipher how much someone respected him, just by how they reacted to his eye contact. Many people either glared at him or cowered away. 

When she looked into his eyes, she could almost see a younger version of herself. Her younger self crying as her teeth grew an absurd amount, her younger self crying after he first called her a mudblood, her younger self—

"I know my eyes are beautiful, but I didn't think you would be enamoured by them." He rested his face on his hands as he waited for her response. 

Hermione glared at him. "I hate them—your eyes are just the past of my life." 

"And yet you're still fascinated by them? Why are you so keen on making your life miserable?" 

Hermione had no answer. She had been miserable for so long that any additional sadness didn't seem to pile up—she was numb to most of her emotions. She couldn't even recall how she felt in the past few days. 

"Because life is miserable," she merely said. 

The corner of his lips curled into a smile while hers turned into a scowl. Hermione's single confession lit his interest on fire. 

"Sounds a bit pessimistic." 

Hermione poured the alcohol into a glass before handing it to the person in front of her. When the person left, she turned her head back to Draco—who still waited for her answer. 

"The sun doesn't even shine anymore. Do you think I would have hope?" 

His eyes only showed a stronger sense of curiosity—to understand how she stood through life. If he hadn't been a Malfoy, he wouldn't have survived under her conditions. No, he had to decipher how she continued walking down the same path every day. Yet, his thoughts were quickly interrupted. 

With the shuffling of feet and distant yelling, Death Eaters walked into the pub. Cleo and Hermione carefully watched the Death Eaters, but Draco kept his back to the group. 

"Where's the youngest Malfoy?" One of the Death Eaters yelled. 

Hermione gripped her wand tighter, she would know that voice anywhere. Her eyes narrowed at the group of Death Eaters before glaring at Draco. The band had stopped playing their music as the Death Eaters pushed through the crowd to find Draco. 

She could see the crowd drunkenly move out of the way for that particular Death Eater. But it was her cackling that made Hermione's hair stand up at the back of her neck—the Dark Lord's second-in-command. 

_Bellatrix Lestrange._

Hermione could feel every muscle in her body tensed as Bellatrix walked forwards to the bar. Even Draco looked a bit afraid that his aunt was walking towards him. The lights turned a dark shade of green—a fitting colour for Bellatrix or a fitting colour for how sick Hermione felt. 

Hermione kept a calm and collected front, but she could feel her hands shake as she held her wand under the counter. 

Bellatrix looked back at the band before motioning for them to continue playing. "Keep playing your music. I just need to talk to my dear _nephew."_

The man awkwardly began playing the piano again, trying to signal the rest of the band to join along. Without sparing Hermione or Cleo a glance, Bellatrix dragged Draco out of the pub. 

The Death Eaters quickly apparated away while the Desperates left the pub and followed Bellatrix. The pub replaced the tense air with the familiar fun-loving atmosphere that they were all accustomed to. 

Draco hated getting dragged across the street by his aunt—he felt like a child waiting to get punished. 

"How many times do I have to tell you not to follow me?" Bellatrix shrieked before pointing her wand at the Desperates. 

The Desperates grumbled an apology before apparating away. Bellatrix let out a sigh of approval when they left. "Finally. They follow me around like a dog." 

Bellatrix grabbed his arm and apparated both of them to Malfoy Manor, but it wasn't the Malfoy Manor anymore. 

Even though he had not lived in the manor for almost half a year, it looked the same. The manor officially became the Death Eater's headquarters; other than having meetings every week, no one lived in the manor. 

While all the other Death Eaters had to attend all of the meetings, Lucius and Narcissa attended two of the meetings. For better or for worse, Draco only went to the first meetings of the month. 

If he could recount correctly, it was mid-May. 

The manor was still as gloomy as he could remember. The white peacocks still roamed the gardens; he could even see a younger version of himself chasing them around. The grand doors that he knew so well were filled with cobwebs and dust. 

Bellatrix opened the door to the manor, and they both walked in. He could hear his parents talking quietly. 

" _Draco."_ Narcissa quickly walked down the stairs of the foyer and held him close to her. Her face in his chest, listening to his steady heartbeat. His heart was beating—he was alive. 

Narcissa missed her son more than anything in the world. After he left, she had little purpose in her life. All she could remember was how she protected and cared for Draco, but he was no child anymore, and she could no longer protect him from the evils of the world. 

Lucius smiled at Draco. "We've missed you, Draco. We have so much to tell you." 

"Draco—" 

Bellatrix wasn't amused at the small reunion. "No time for talking, Cissy! The Dark Lord is waiting for us!" Bellatrix pushed Draco into the drawing-room, Lucius and Narcissa following behind them. 

It was eerily similar to his sixth year—being pushed around by Bellatrix and the Dark Lord. His stomach churned at the idea of getting another task from the Dark Lord. 

Draco had not been called for a task in years. 

A wave of nausea hit him. 

All of the Death Eaters sat at the large table and laughed when they saw Bellatrix push Draco into the room. Narcissa held onto Draco's shaky hands and squeezed them as a form of comfort, but he couldn't tell if it was to comfort him or herself. 

"The Malfoys come at last," the Dark Lord rasped. His pale hands reached toward Nagini before pointing at the Malfoys. 

Nagini slithered her way to the Malfoys. Her flickering tongue sniffed the Malfoys to check that they didn't have something that would harm the Dark Lord. 

"My lord, I'm incredibly sorry. The pub—" 

The Dark Lord raised his hand, cutting Bellatrix off. "The pub will be dealt with later." 

Nagini slithered back to the Dark Lord. The Malfoys and Bellatrix bowed down to the Dark Lord before they took their seat at the table. Bellatrix on the right side of the Dark Lord. The Malfoys at the very end of the table. 

Draco let go of his mother's hands and gripped onto the arm of the chair he sat on. He tried to keep his movements as still as possible to avoid having Nagini look in his direction. 

The terror climbed up his stomach and into his throat—stealing the air and blocking him from taking any deep breaths. Draco desperately wanted to gasp for air, but the air he breathed in burnt his lungs. Sweat dripped down his body and soaked his clothes. 

The meeting had barely begun. 

He could see the other Death Eaters listening to the Dark Lord's words carefully. His aunt eagerly volunteered herself for a job that Draco couldn't quite manage to catch. 

He felt a light nudge at his feet. Draco turned his face to look at his mother, who slightly nodded her head to the other end of the table—a reminder to pay attention to the Dark Lord before he gets caught. 

"With everything they love taken away—they have nothing left. No choice but to succumb to me. No ideas to rebel." The Dark Lord took his wand and slowly walked towards the Malfoys. 

Draco could hear his heart thumping in different directions, desperate to run away from the Dark Lord. The bile in his throat threatened to fall out, but he pushed it back down. 

Draco turned his head to his parents, both of whom had a stoic expression on their faces, but their eyes held fear. He had not seen the intensity of fear in his mother's eyes since he had first taken the mark. His father's fingers started to tap on the arms of his chair. 

"Young Malfoy, do you wonder why you have been called to a meeting in the middle of the month?" 

"Yes—no—yes? Yes—my lord." Draco diverted his attention to the table in front of him. He could feel the eyes of the other Death Eaters watching him with a look of utter joy on their faces. 

The Dark Lord mocked Draco's voice to the other Death Eaters. Bellatrix shook her head, ashamed at how poorly her nephew—her supposed protégé—spoke to the Dark Lord. 

"Your parents have paid their debts and have taken their roles as Death Eaters very seriously, but you, on the other hand—" 

The Dark Lord took Draco's left arm and revealed the Dark Mark. A sinister laugh escaped the Dark Lord's lips as he pressed his fingers into the skin of Draco's forearm. 

Draco clenched his jaw. His mark sporadically moved around his forearm—trying to break free from the Dark Lord's grasp. He looked up to see the Dark Lord wickedly smiling at him from above. 

Draco quickly tore his eyes away from the Dark Lord's snake-like eyes. 

The Dark Lord took his hands off of Draco. "Young Malfoy, I believe it's time that you prove your worth. All you have to do is execute the next round of prisoners." 

Draco's face paled and held a slight tinge of green. 

"Severus isn't here to kill for you anymore, young Malfoy. Do you accept your task?"

Draco knew he had no choice but to accept his task. His grip on the chair tightened, his knuckles turned much whiter than before. The ring he wore suffocated his finger. "Yes, my lord." 

Draco forced himself to keep his eyes open. The moment he blinked, all he could see were Professor Dumbledore's eyes. He couldn't pinpoint the emotions in Dumbledore's eyes as he pointed his wand at him—was it sadness? It couldn't have been fear.

If he couldn't kill one person, how could he possibly kill a row of people? 

"And if you fail to do so—" 

Draco's heart nearly stopped. Maybe he should have properly prepared to have a heart attack and die before he would have to complete his task. 

He could already feel his soul ripping itself apart—desperately clinging onto his sanity. 

"—you will wish you were dead." 

Draco's brain began to match the sprinting marathon his heart had been running. It was too vague of a consequence to fully grasp the scope of his task. It could be a million different consequences that the Dark Lord could execute. 

The Death Eaters around him were displeased that another Malfoy got yet another chance to complete yet another task. They all believed that the Malfoys' failure should not be forgiven. Jealousy and envy filled the room—almost suffocating Draco. 

"Very well, young Malfoy." The Dark Lord held his wand and pointed towards the Dark Mark on Draco's arm before muttering an incantation. 

_Tick. Tick. Tick._

The broken Grandfather clock in the front of the drawing-room stood strong. Broken pieces of glass surrounded the Grandfather clock. Glass tinted red. 

_Tick. Tick. Tick._

The Dark Lord walked back towards his seat at the table. A look of fear washed the Death Eaters faces once again. 

_Tick. Tick. Tick._

By the time the Dark Lord dismissed the Death Eaters, the sun had begun to rise. 

Bellatrix took the Malfoys and led them into a separate room. If he could recall correctly, it was the room he used to learn piano in, but the piano was nowhere in sight. 

_Tick. Tick. Tick._

"It's a great honour that the Dark Lord still entrusts Draco to have him kill the next row of prisoners! I hear this batch is a good one—I heard it's a lot more than usual. I'm guessing the Desperates have been on their mark!" Bellatrix jump and cackled before kissing Narcissa's cheek.

Bellatrix walked over to her nephew and whispered into his ear, "Don't fail us, Draco!" She kissed his ear before apparating away. 

A sigh of relief left Draco's lips once Bellatrix left. 

Lucius walked up to Draco before placing his hand on Draco's shoulders. "Draco, you can do it—" 

"Hush, Lucius. We haven't seen our son and the first thing you talk to him about are the Dark Lord's orders." Narcissa took Lucius's hand off of Draco's shoulder and held it in her own. 

"I am looking out for him—we can be reunited as a family if he's able to do this." 

"Where have you both been? I never got a concrete answer from you," Draco asked.

His father smiled happily. "We've been staying in Stygian—" 

"Stygian? What—where's Stygian? I've never heard of _Stygian_ before."

"It's a wonderful place, Draco!" Lucius broke into the biggest grin Draco had ever seen on his father. "The Dark Lord and some of the other Death Eaters live there! They have the finest wine—one that the pubs couldn't even dream of. Everyone's pockets are filled to the brim with galleons. Some of your friends are there too!" 

His father took a deep breath before continuing. "But best of all, we can all live in Stygian together and put our past behind! All you have to do is kill that row of people, and we can all live a happy life!" 

Narcissa nodded her head before resting her hand on Lucius's arm—an indication for him to stop. 

Draco could see the hope in their eyes. Hope that their family could live in a better world. That hope for Stygian should have made Draco determined to complete his task, but all he could feel were the walls in his mind closing in on him. 

He didn't want to—couldn't—fail his parents. No, he had to make their dreams come true; if anyone in his life deserved happiness, it would be his parents. But, all he could imagine were their disappointed faces as he failed his task. 

In his hotel room, Draco took his wand and began to practice saying the incantations. He only had a few days before he would have to execute the prisoners.

He made sure that he knew all of the incantations and the hand movements. He could almost hear his aunt yelling at him then cackling in the back of his mind. Gradually, the incantations and the hand movements were ingrained in his mind. 

When he grew sick at the thought of blood on his hands, Draco took his guitar and began playing. 

He strummed the strings in the movement of the wand. The notes followed the incantations of the spell. The wall reverberated the sound across the room. 

The sound was hauntingly beautiful. 

He strummed the strings of his guitar until calluses formed on his hands. When the calluses appeared, he went back to saying the incantations and practising his hand movements. He went to sleep as he traced the movement of the spells onto his skin. 

Draco did not go to the pub for the few days before the task. He barely could stomach any food or alcohol. Most of all, he wasn't in the mood to look at everyone dancing around and laughing. 

When Friday arrived, he had memorized the incantations and the wand movements for the Unforgivable Curses. His hands would move subconsciously to the rhythm of the words. 

He tried performing the killing curse on the plants in his room. Yet, the plants stayed alive. In a bout of anger, Draco smashed the mirror—disfiguring his reflection. Blood rushed out of his right fist, but the pain did not faze him. He scowled at the blood dripping down onto the floor. 

Lucius and Narcissa apparated to Draco's hotel room. Shards of the broken mirror surrounded Draco's feet. 

"Are you okay, Draco? What did you do?" Narcissa asked, a deep frown on her face as she examined his right fist. 

Draco shrugged his shoulders before flicking his wand. The mirror fixed itself, and the stains on the floor disappeared. He didn't bother cleaning his bloody fist—it was proof that he was still alive. He was still bleeding the same colour of blood that he once bled. 

Draco wrapped his fist with a piece of cloth. Blood quickly seeped through the cloth. 

"We can't be late," Lucius said. 

Lucius put his arm around Draco's shoulder and turned both of them around—with their backs facing Narcissa. "You can do this, Draco. Just imagine the life we can have after this! You can be redeemed in the eyes of the Dark Lord. The Malfoy name would be restored!" 

"Lucius." Narcissa warned as she crossed her arms and began tapping her feet. Lucius pulled away from Draco before muttering an apology to Narcissa. 

"Are you ready to apparate?" Narcissa softly asked. 

"Yes." 

Draco took his mother's arm before they apparated to the capital. They stood on the platform of the arena. 

The execution place reminded him of the Colosseum. Stands and seats circled the platform in the middle. 

Multiple stands in the front covered the grounds for people to sell food and merchandise. Cameras had been set up on all sides of the platform—ready to televise the execution for the rest of the Wizarding World. Lines of eager watches wrapped around the front of the coliseum, waiting to be let in. Vultures flew above as they waited for their prey. 

"Draco! Cissy!" Bellatrix screeched before stepping onto the platform. 

Draco grimaced at her yelling. "Aunt Bella." 

Bellatrix hugged her sister and nodded her head at Lucius. "Cissy, I'll talk to Draco before the execution starts! Just head over to our stand with Lucius, and I'll be right there." 

Narcissa looked sceptical of her sister but curtly nodded her head. "Good luck, Draco," Narcissa said as she hugged Draco before heading to the stands with Lucius. 

Bellatrix returned her attention to Draco. "Do not mess this up, Draco. Your parents have been waiting for this moment. Don't fail me—imagine how horrible it would be to have my protégé fail! You have the purest of bloods and all of the filth you're about to kill should be honoured that you're going to kill them. Remember what I've taught you." Bellatrix pinched his cheeks before skipping her way to the stands. 

Draco walked off of the platform and sat on the chair in the front row. His fear heightened as the execution approached. Death Eaters, Desperates, and schools began to fill the stands, but the chair next to him stayed empty. 

"I cannot wait to see the platform get covered in blood!" A person in the crowd said. 

Draco glanced at the crowd near him. Children wore sweaters embroidered with Nagini while they ate their sweets. He felt uncomfortable waiting for the execution to start. He was used to watching the execution through a screen. 

The stands erupted in cheers as the Dark Lord and Nagini apparated onto the platform. The Dark Lord waited several minutes before holding his hand up to cut off the cheers. 

"How wonderful is it to see all of you excited to get rid of such filthy blood—traitorous even." 

The cheers erupted from the crowd before the Dark Lord raised his hand again. 

"Today we have young Malfoy doing the honours of killing the prisoners today." 

Draco could hear some people laugh at his name—the Dark Lord laughed and nodded his head. "Yes, quite pathetic." 

The Dark Lord stopped laughing before he began his speech. "These prisoners have taken their freedom for granted. Such _filthy_ blood should be grateful that I have spared their lives for so long—" 

The crowd began to cheer again. 

"—their ancestors have taken a liking to murdering our people for having magic in our systems. Yet, we were kind enough to spare their lives, but now they will pay for their ancestors and their crimes!" The Dark Lord said. 

"Execution row: 030 500 002 can enter the arena now," the moderator announced. 

Draco could see Dolohov pulling in the row of prisoners up to the platform. Women, children, and men of various ages were shackled to each other. The kids held onto each other's hands and began to cry as they struggled against their shackles. 

The Dark Lord announced their wrongdoings to the crowd. Some were petty crimes while the other crimes were dangerous to the Dark Lord's teachings. It could have been anywhere from 15-20 prisoners that were onstage. 

"Young Malfoy, please come up on stage," the moderator said. 

Silence replaced the cheering as Draco walked up the steps. He kept a stoic face plastered on as he watched the prisoners stare at him in fear. The children began to wail. 

The crowd laughed; Draco couldn't tell if they were laughing at him or the crying children. 

"Young Malfoy, you may begin the execution." The cameras around him began to zoom in on Draco and the prisoners around him. 

Draco could feel the eyes of the crowd and the Dark Lord pierce his skin. The snake on his Dark Mark began to slither throughout the skull. His skin began to burn, but he didn't mind. 

The blood-stained cloth wrapped around his fist reminded him that his blood could be on the platform if he didn't complete his task. 

He took his wand out from his pocket and pointed it at the first prisoner. The prisoner looked up at him, eyes watering as they begged for mercy. Yet, the prisoner next to them looked glad to accept their fate—to free them from their painful shackles. 

He closed his eyes as he prepared himself to say the incantation and follow the wand movement. As much as he practised the spells, his wand felt awkward in his hands. It felt heavier than he remembered. He took a deep breath to stop the shaking in his hand. 

He couldn't see the prisoner's eyes, begging for mercy. He couldn't see the crowd watching him murder someone. He couldn't see his parents filled with hope for a better life. He couldn't see himself taking someone's life away. 

He thought about the life he could have with his parents. 

He could finally escape from the world he had been in for years. He would be able to breathe fresh air. He would be able to start with a fresh page in his book. 

" _Crucio!"_

Draco couldn't register if the prisoner was screaming or not. Everything around him faded into white even though he could only see black. He couldn't pay attention to any of the sensations around him as he waited a few seconds. 

He could see the Grandfather clock staring back at him. He was losing time, and he hadn't even killed his first prisoner. 

Draco reminded himself that he could do it. Nothing was stopping him—there was never an existence of a "good" Draco. 

He reminded himself that nothing would change if he killed someone. 

He took a deep breath before he lifted his wand again. 

" _Avada Kedavra."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please ignore fantastic beast and nagini's character in that.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CHECK UPDATED TAGS.  
> Asterisks will indicate any gore/violence. 
> 
> Sorry this chapter is shorter than usual, I've been having a hard week.

Hermione watched the screen as it broadcast the execution. The windows reflected the screens for the outside world to watch. Hermione and Cleo stood behind the bar and watched as the execution began. 

They watched as Draco walked up to the platform and prepared himself to cast the spell. 

She should have expected to see Draco onstage to kill people like her. After all, he was a Death Eater—it was his job to maintain order in the world. 

The pub was a bit crowded for being the afternoon, but it was better to drink and pretend the execution was a figment of a nightmare. People bitterly looked at the table in front of them as the prisoners walked onto the stage. 

"Hey, you three! Watch the fucking execution, or you'll be next. Law 05 states that you have to watch the execution!" One of the Desperates yelled. 

The people sitting at the tables forced themselves to stare at the screens. 

"Holy shit, and he's supposed to kill children?" Cleo whispered to Hermione. Their eyes glued to the screen in front of them. 

Silence enveloped the room as Draco began casting the spells. 

" _Crucio!"_ His voice rang through the screen. 

She paid close attention to him. His jaws clenched, shoulders tense, and his eyes were closed. The prisoners stared at him with wide eyes. 

Hermione nervously shifted in her spot as they watched the screens. "I don't think he wants to kill them—the spells aren't working." 

"You must think highly of him if you think he'll be able to kill them," Cleo said. 

" _Avada Kedavra."_

The camera zoomed in on the prisoner—very much alive—and Draco. 

Hermione could see his eyes closed. The wind seemed to pick up on his hair and hit his face. He opened his eyes once he heard the crowds begin to laugh. 

Panic tore his face once he realized why. 

" _Crucio! Avada Kedavra!"_

***

His panicked voice began to chant the spells as he pointed his wand towards the prisoner again. The children stopped weeping and stared up at him—eyes filled with hope. They watched him with such intent that he could've been a saviour.

" _Draco! Do it!"_

Hermione gripped onto the counter as he took a deep breath in. His voice carried the spells, but this time the bodies thrashed and fell onto the floor. 

She could hear the cups break as the children's wails abruptly stopped, and their eyes stared at the empty space in front of them. The adult prisoners fell to the ground with a snap of their bones. Screams from the adults rang through the screen and echoed in the pubs. 

She watched as he killed the last few prisoners. 

" _Prepare the feast. Young Malfoy, stay on the platform,"_ the Dark Lord announced. Bodies rested at his feet, bounded together. 

The cameras zoomed out. The vultures and Nagini readied themselves as they waited for the Dark Lord's signal. 

" _The feast commences!"_

Both the vultures and Nagini jumped onto the bodies and began to eat. The blood of the prisoners splattered onto the black suit that Draco wore. 

The blood wasn't noticeable, but everyone knew it was there. 

The vultures and Nagini spat out the bones of the prisoners. Hermione watched as the Dark Lord began to configure all of the bones into a large skull. 

Another skull set to go to the necropolis. 

***

" _And with the blood on the floor, we are free. We are safe,"_ the crowd from the screen chanted. 

The symbol of the Dark Mark flashed onto the screen—the end of the execution. 

"I guess, we we're both wrong. He actually killed them—I'd reckon we have to start giving him free whiskey so that we won't end up getting killed by him," Cleo whispered. 

Hermione nervously laughed and breathed out a small, "Yeah." 

The pub went back to eating and drinking, but they had no conversations. The violinist began to play a sad piece, but no music could explain how everyone felt. 

Cleo went back to work, but Hermione continued to stare at the screen in shock. 

The murders he had just performed had only solidified one thing in her mind: Draco Malfoy was exactly what his name meant. Evil faith. 

Chills wrapped her spine and encased her. 

She couldn't get the wails of the children or the screams from the withering adults out of her head. She tried to soothe her senses by reassuring herself that they had a quick death. She was supposed to be used to this. She was supposed to be unaffected by the things she heard and watched. 

The screams reminded her of the first years trying to get out of their common rooms to fight. The falling bodies reminded her of the members of the Order dying and falling to the ground. 

She could only vaguely remember the war, but she pushed the thoughts away. She would not allow herself to entangle her reality with her nightmares. If she let herself think about the war, she would be swallowed and pulled away from the present. 

She would go crazy thinking about the past. Laying regret upon regret on her body until she suffocated. It would do her no good to think about what went wrong—all she could do was survive in the world she lived in. 

She couldn't keep herself alive if she couldn't keep herself present. 

So that's exactly what she did. She tore her eyes away from the screen and began serving drinks and small sides to the tables.

Her headache grew as she began to walk. She knew the effects of taking the Invigorating Draught daily with little to no sleep while eating small snacks between her shifts would be destructive, but she couldn't stop drinking the draught. 

Most of her money went back to the Invigoration Draught. 

She tried rubbing her temples to ease the pain in her head, but nothing worked to keep the pain at bay. The overwhelming scents seemed to egg her headache on. 

"Cleo, I'll be right back! I'm just going to take a quick break!" 

Hermione headed out of the pub and into the streets before getting Cleo's answer. She paced back and forth in front of the pub. 

She could see his figure walking down the road. Some of the people pointed at him and moved out of his way. 

He looked angry—angrier than she's ever seen him. 

Draco glared at everyone around him. When their eyes met, she could see the rage in his eyes. She blinked again. She could've sworn there was a hint of defeat that lingered in his eyes. 

She turned her back to him and began to walk away, but she could hear him trying to speak to her. 

" _Granger,"_ he said. 

Hermione ignored him and continued to walk away. 

"Dursley. God, how annoying must you be?" 

Hermione pressed her fingers into her temples and let out an aggravated sigh. "Leave me alone, Malfoy. I have a headache, and I don't want to be bothered right now."

She left him waiting in her shadows as she continued her brief walk. Instead of pacing back and forth, she walked down the road. She could hear distant cries come from the caged houses. They must've known the prisoners that had just died. 

There was no escaping the executions and the air of death that loomed over them. 

She could hear footsteps behind her, but she paid them no attention. 

"Just listen to me!" Draco yelled at her. 

The obstructed view from the house allowed the people inside to look outside at the two. The woman was seething as she left her protected home and into the road. 

Draco had a bored look on his face: seemingly used to people yelling at him. He waited for the woman to stop, but she continued to yell at him. 

The woman walked up to Draco before punching him in the stomach. " _You._ You took my son away from me! He was a child—a child! All he ever wanted to do was help his family. You took him away from me! A part of my family is missing because of you." 

He took every hit. 

"Please stop!" Hermione said. 

The woman ignored her and continued to hit Draco. 

"Stop!" Hermione yelled again. This time the woman paused and angrily looked at Hermione. 

"When you lose a child—you'll understand. I wouldn't be surprised if you're in lines with someone like them. Already trying to protect this one." The woman jabbed her finger into Draco's chest.

Hermione nodded. "Yes—I understand—but we can't hurt him. The Desperates will hear and turn you in." 

"I could care less about the Desperates." 

Hermione looked around the road, no one in sight. "If we hurt him, we'll only stoop down to his level," Hermione tried to reason. 

Draco was surprised that Hermione tried to stop the woman, but he watched her eyes flicker from the woman to the group of Desperates on the other side of the town. 

"If stooping down to his level is the worst that can happen, I would sort out your priorities." The woman laughed. 

Hermione could hear more footsteps coming in their direction. The Desperates must've heard the yelling between the three of them.

"Are these ladies bothering you, young Malfoy?" The leader said. 

Draco shook his head. "Let's just leave these two alone." 

"Oh, I'm bothering him." The woman punched Draco in the face. Hermione could hear the snap in his nose as blood rushed down his face. Blood dripped down his face and onto his blood-stained shirt. 

His blood mixed with those of the dead. 

The Desperates looked at each other before smiling. "We'll take this one, young Malfoy. Maybe you'll get to execute her next week—revenge, don't you think?" 

Two of the Desperates took the woman and put her in shackles before apparating away. The rest of the Desperates turned to Hermione. 

"Should leave now, girl." 

She could see some of the Desperates begin to furrow their eyebrows at her. Hermione nodded and began to walk away. She could distantly hear their conversation with Draco. 

"The Death Eaters wanted to talk to you—I think they'll be here any minute?" 

Hermione quickened her pace away from where she once was. She walked towards the pub, but the heat became overbearing. 

It was normal for the temperature to switch on and off; too hot or too cold. No matter what the temperature was, Hermione never took off her jacket. If she took it off, people would take the chance and steal it for themselves. It was much better to have a jacket to keep you warm when it went below freezing. 

It wasn't until she heard screaming that she turned around. 

Bright flashes of orange and red caught Hermione's attention. Smoke filled her senses. She could hear the crackling of fire and laughter over the screams. 

Hermione began running towards the sounds of screams. 

Death Eaters surrounded the bakery and a small house—used as a small school. 

"Get out! Everyone out! Go home!" The teachers yelled. The kids—thankfully, none were hurt from the fire—ran to their houses. 

The teachers cried as they watched their small house burn. The bakery in front of the house began to burn. 

Hermione ran towards the forest and then apparated to the back of the house. 

" _Augamenti!"_

Instead of clean drinking water, a clear poison covered the house, but nothing happened. The house continued to burn. 

Hermione apparated away from the house before she could be seen. 

Draco could see Hermione from where he was standing. The flames of the fire flickered in her eyes. He watched as she shook her head at the ashes and left. 

The pub—overfilled with alcohol—greeted her with open arms. 

Cleo had small plates of the food on a plate as she served the tables. "There you are, Jean. Back to work!" 

The lights were dreamy. 

Her time in the city was cut short; she had to run away before more Death Eaters began to realize Draco liked to annoy her. Her hands gripped the glass, and anger overwhelmed her senses. 

If he had not been involved, she could've stayed a bit longer. For the first time in a while, she finally had some sort of steady income. The pub was the home she hadn't had in a long time. It was the first time she wanted to stay. 

But, it seemed like the Desperates and Despondents began to keep a closer eye on her. If they were already suspicious of her, they would have no hesitation to tip the Death Eaters in her direction. 

She couldn't just burn all of the posers with her face on them and expect no one to notice. 

She had to leave. 

Her mind went back to the mind-numbing repetitive nature of getting alcohol on the bottom shelf and pouring half a glass. 

For the entire night, she was ecstatic that she had not seen Draco or the other Death Eaters. 

When the sun rose, she walked out of the pub and headed towards the forest. She made sure that no one followed her. 

But there he was. 

Sleeping on the floor. His suit jacket covered his body. His belongings surrounding him. A guitar and some food next to his body. It was quite pathetic to her—leaving his belongings around, ready for someone to take it. 

His hands were wrapped with a bloody cloth, but his nose was fixed. 

She began to quietly move away from where he slept, but the branches cracked under her feet. It seemed to awaken him. He rose to his feet and narrowed his eyes at her. His jacket fell to the floor. His tall figure hovered over her. 

"Here to laugh at me, Granger?" 

Hermione laughed. "I didn't come to the forest to laugh at you," she pointed at him and then the forest floor, "but this—this is hilarious." 

"You followed me into the forest?" 

"Don't flatter yourself, Malfoy. this is where I live." 

Draco rubbed his jaw. "Of course. I should have known you would live in mud, fits your description doesn't it?" 

"I wouldn't expect ferrets to live in forests." 

Draco pursed his lips. The tips of his ear dusting a light pink. "I would shut your mouth, Granger." 

"But you're the one who brought up me sleeping in mud—when you're also sleeping in mud?" Hermione quirked her brow and tapped her feet. 

"A play on words. I would make more sense if I said, 'Mudblood sleeps in mud,' wouldn't it?" 

"You're still using that word?" 

Draco leaned against the tree and crossed his arms. "I haven't called you mudblood since I first saw you." 

"Congrats on doing the bare fucking minimum and having some sort of decency—oh wait. You have none. Wouldn't think you would kill people or burn houses, but you prove me wrong." 

Draco mockingly bowed and ignored her last few comments. "Why thank you. It was incredibly hard not to call you a mudblood, but I couldn't waste my opportunity." 

Hermione pointed at all of his belongings. "Seems like this is your first time camping out here. Just a tip, don't leave your belongings out in the open. I'm sure the Desperates and Despondents will take your shit." 

"Despondents? Fucking hell, Granger, just have to be pretentious and make up a whole class?" He looked down and took the guitar off of the floor. "I'm offended that you think I would be stupid enough to leave my things around the place, where anyone can take it. You see, I've charmed this to make sure that no one can take it without me being alerted—makes it much easier for me to wake up and—" 

"Kill someone?" 

"Exactly." 

Hermione pointed at herself. "And why haven't you killed me yet?" 

"I wouldn't want to get filthy blood on my hands." Draco stretched his fingers. The rings glittering in the sunlight. 

"And yet, you're covered in the blood of the prisoners. I may have filthy blood coursing through my veins—yet you were the blood of prisoners with pride and shame mine." 

He had a crooked smile on his lips. "Don't you think I would wear your blood with pride?" 

"Why aren't you celebrating with the other Death Eaters? I'd believe you would be with them, but here you are, on the same level as me. Sleeping on the same floor as me." 

"Don't remind me. I would much rather not be reminded that I'm forced to live in the same city as you." 

"Likewise." Hermione glanced at all of his possessions, but she couldn't find his wand. "So, let's say if you were to kill me, how would you kill me?" 

Draco put his hands in his pockets. Hermione expected him to take his wand and point it at her, but he shrugged. "Wouldn't you like to know?" 

"Yes, I would like to know. That's why I'm asking you." 

"I would tell you, but you've never answered my questions when I had nothing to offer. You know you're stubborn as hell, Granger?" 

"I will always—and will always be stubborn, but when it comes to you, I'll be obstinate." 

Draco put his hand over his heart. "I'm quite flattered you reserved that for me. Anything else to tell me." 

"I'll tell you this a million times, Malfoy, _fuck off._ You've ruined everything for me." 

"I would shut your mouth too. If you keep running your mouth, you'll get killed—me, I would be fine." Draco pushed his body off of the tree and walked towards her. "But answer this question for me, will you? If you hate me so much why would you still defend me?" 

Hermione laughed. Her stomach hurt as she laughed harder than she could remember. It felt good for her to laugh at him. He stared at her; confusion laced his features. 

"I didn't think—do you think I care for you?" Hermione paused and tried to steady her breathing, but she continued to laugh. "Didn't you see the Desperates? If we were to harm their precious Death Eaters, I would be doomed. I could care less about you." 

Draco rolled his eyes. "Not only this but back in Hogwarts. Why wouldn't you just let me die?"

"Would you want to be killed? You're just lucky that Harry and Ron are more forgiving than I am. If the woman had killed you, I would be a witness in the court trial—where I would be caught." Hermione mocked, "Yeah, I _definitely_ care about your well being." 

"Potter? Forgiving? In your dreams, Granger. Maybe then you'll get to see your friends. Now can you leave my humble abode?" 

Hermione scowled at him. "A Malfoy being humble? I don't think those words could go together. A Malfoy living in the forest? Are you sure you're a Malfoy or are you someone in disguise?" 

"Granger, you seem to think you know everything, don't you?" 

She curtly nodded her head. "I know everything that I need to know. I frankly don't care about your life." 

"Yeah, okay. Can I go back to sleep—it was quite peaceful when you were away." 

"It was quite peaceful when I forgot that you existed." 

Draco shrugged his shoulders. "Whatever floats your boat. I would imagine it to be horrible to forget my presence." 

Hermione grimaced at the thought of remembering him. "I would love to forget your presence." She walked away from where he stood. 

"And when the rain comes down—your boat will begin to sink. No matter how well constructed something is, it will always find a way to break." 

Hermione paused and turned to face him. "That's nice—but don't you think I'm waiting for the day that my boat would sink?" Her voice turned bitter. "I would much rather drown knowing that I cannot save myself." 


End file.
